In the Footsteps of St. Herman

(Postcard image: Liliana and Natalya pose for Fr. John’s camera outside their parish in Vladivsotok. They truly represent the “Heart of Russia.”)

Pokrov (Protection of the Mother of God) Church in Vladivostok. It was originally built between 1902-05, then closed in 1935. In 2005 it was renovated and later reopened in 2008.

Last evening, I packed and rearranged my bags. My flight is not until 15:50 (3:50 p.m.) and I’ll be able to stay at the hotel all morning without rushing. Before leaving town, I wanted to stroll the seaside again.

But first I had a present for the church I attended over the weekend. I walked down the hill once more, not knowing who if anyone would be there, or how I would leave the icon I carried if no one were.

I had hardly walked up the steps to the little park in front of the church when I hear: “Batiushka Ioan, is that you?”

It was Lillian. She had been assigned to me to help translate, as she knew a little English. But she greeted me in Russian. She was working at the church today. “Would you like to enter the church to pray?”

“Of course! Thank you!”

“Natalya, look. It’s Batiushka Ioan who was with us yesterday!”

I walked down the steps into the lower church, very thankful that my silent prayers had already been answered.

“I have a present for the church here. Can you see that Fr. Nikolai gets it?”

“Of course. May we see it now?”

“Certainly.”

“Why, it’s the one we need. We don’t have this one, do we Natalya?” It is the icon of Our Lady with the Chalice in front of her: it looks similar to Our Lady of the Sign. They call it “Chasha” meaning “chalice”.

“We do an akathist for this icon.”

How wonderful it all feels. And it is a wonder-filled moment.

“Father, give us your email.” I do so and supply the Blog address as well.

We walk up the stairs. The park air is nice and cool by this time. (It had been 29°C / 84°F earlier, the last time I wanted to look at a temperature sign. With the humidity from the sea, without a breeze, you are hot and steamy quickly during midday.)

“Batiushka, we want to give you something! Sit down, please.” They rush over to the lavka, which is a freestanding booth in the park. They come back with a CD of Russian and Ukrainian Christmas carols, sung by a local choir from churches in Vladivostok. I tell them how Nicholas, especially, will be overjoyed to receive such a present.

We sit and talk a while longer. “Father, would you like tea?”

“Sure.”

“Natalya, let’s fix Father some tea.” Before I know it, water is being boiled: “Tea or coffee?”

“Coffee, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“It’s not.” So, coffee it is for me; tea, for the ladies. Candies had already been brought out of the church basement, and now Natalya comes back with a plate of cookies and cymki (soomky). Cymki are little round tea biscuits, almost pretzels, without the pretzel taste or salt, shaped in rings, almost like miniature bagels.

I admire the coffee mugs: each one looks like a little white flowerpot. The rim is decorated with flowers. “They’re from China,” Lillian laughs.

“Really? It’s so close.”

“Batiushka, please take it, you like it so.” I was able to fend off the generosity.

We sat and talked a bit more, about how many churches remained open here previously — Lillian counts up: nine, maybe ten. I wonder why there seemed to been more in Vladivostok? She has no answer. Who does?

Lillian and Natalya tell me about the island Natalya lives on, Russkiy Ostrov. Its 40 minutes away by ferry. There is monastery there, about a dozen men in the brotherhood. Natalya helps the monks, too.

Had I only known! I can’t afford a rush trip across the bay tomorrow morning and get back in time to catch my plane.

“Zhal!” (What a pity!), exclaims Lillian.

Indeed: “Next time,” I say.

“Next time.” Natalya and Lillian agree.

“Will you go to Magadan?”

I explain the difficulty obtaining visas for longer than thirty days and how this compromised my itinerary a bit by the time the longer visa came through.

“Really? Only 30 days for Americans?”

“A hold-over from the Cold War,” I attempt.

We talk about how we are one people, with one faith, with one Name under heaven and on earth, no matter who we are, or where we are. We ponder how God helps us sit and talk and understand each other.

Three black and white cats, nine or ten months old, seem to attend this parish, too. Litter mates, obviously, they have virtually the same markings, and look a little like those black and white bunnies some people keep for pets. Another lady from church had walked by, to sit down and eat a bite, and feed the cats. I tell her not to feed them too much, or they will get fat like Batiushka and not eat any mice. They all laugh.

The belfry at St. Tatiana's Chapel in Vladivostok.

It’s time for me to go and finish my stroll before light fades. They all stand and ask my blessing.

Another unexpected joy! I had been busy today seeing more sights and churches. This was the perfect way for this day to draw near its close.

I wound my way the block or so to the Gulf of Amur once more. I remember regretfully the Oceanarium there that I had made a mental note about on Saturday to visit before leaving. Again, it will have to be next time.

The souvenir salesmen were starting to pack up. Twilight was approaching. At this latitude and longitude and in this time zone, it gets dark quicker; by 10:30 it’s dark. Folks on the beach are folding up lounge chairs. People in the paddleboats make for shore. Strollers still walk the “board walk” around me while I snap a few shots. (By the way, it’s not a wooden boardwalk. It’s masonry with polished granite balustrades.)

I notice the sign on the building opposite: Pacific Ocean Yacht Club! OK, that’s the new Russia, for sure. I snap some shots of new construction on the hill above my hotel. It’s pleasant way to have ended my last full day in Vladivostok.

There will have to be a next time! Adios, Vladivostok, not Goodbye!

Hard to believe that I’m leaving Russia tomorrow, more than half the world away from my origination, and yet not at my final destination either. Two months on the road in foreign countries will expose anyone to new sights and new insights, as well.

Today I had a little time to reflect about the last eight weeks: the people, the places, the funny, and the profound. It’s not that the sabbatical is winding down; on the contrary, I’m reaching the midpoint of my odyssey.

The People(s):

One should never stereotype any group of people. It’s impossible to be accurate, and in fact, “the people” are always, in actuality, many peoples. Russia in its vastness is no exception. I’ve met blond haired-blue eyed Karelians and dark skinned Azeris. Slavs and Armenians, Europeans and Asians, all share a single citizenship, a single national identity, and a common language despite their many ethnicities.

If raised during the Cold War years, Americans especially can be inclined to rely on the TV images of Krushchev and Brezhnev when forming their impressions of Russia. This, of course, is unfair not only to Russians but to Americans as well. It distorts the reality of the former and limits the horizons of the latter.

The citizens of Russia are like citizens of any country. They have their commonalities with one another and their peculiarities, which are dictated by custom, habit, and social systems.

When citizens of two different countries interact, all sorts of responses should be anticipated. Depending upon the circumstances, the encounter can be pleasant, humorous, or mutually gratifying. Or it can produce frustration, anxiety, and ultimately anger.

I have travelled through Russia in various circumstances since crossing the border on June 4, both with private drivers and using public transportation, having English-speaking tour guides and winging it on my own through museums, airports, train stations, restaurants and shops. The truth is, people are people. Some smile and some won’t. Some try to listen patiently to a foreigner’s attempt to fumble his way through their language, and some don’t. Some are grumpy and some are — like so many I’ve met — true unexpected joys.

The ultimate key to communication is finding what one has in common with another. Breakdowns always point to the loss of commonality, whether dreams and goals, or things far more trivial.

It is true, different cultures act differently in different circumstances. A visitor always has to remember this when his cultural values clash with different cultural values in a new situation. We’ve been taught to act and to respond differently. It is unreasonable to expect an entire nation to conform to our ideas and social norms. Of course, in a panic, we will retreat to that which is most familiar, and this will always limit the possibility of finding that common thread which the traveler ultimately needs.

The Places:

From the moment we crossed from generally prosperous Finland to Russia, we were struck with the contrast between the two countries. Rural poverty in Russia is particularly appalling, especially when there is so much land and natural resources available. But people have left rural life for the city in Russia as they have in many other countries. And the state collective farms have been largely abandoned in great numbers. There is no tradition of landed farmers left, thanks to the previous economic system. As state owned businesses collapsed during Perestroika, the people were the victims of privatization. This is particularly acute in the rural areas. Quaint Russian villages are not that quaint, without plumbing or paving.

In the cities, there is the opulence of the old, Tsarist past in the museums vying with images of the new wealth of Russian consumerism in daily life. Couple this with the incongruity of communist monuments, heralding the Glory of Soviet Power, juxtaposed to the construction of new churches. The gleaming golden domes of the latter sparkle not only on the skylines but also in promotional brochures for business and tourism. New apartment complexes stand next to Soviet apartment blocks. Progressive Western Europe stands next to sometimes decaying relics of a different epoch.

The Russian landscape on my route has been predominated by forest — the taiga — and rivers, dotted with villages. The cities have been as varied as cities can be, anywhere. Some are thriving and some are in definite decline. Some seem to look to the future, while others seem gripped by the past.

The Funny:

Take for example, the queue. (For American readers, it’s the line you stand in waiting to take your turn to do something.) In Russia, once upon a time there were manifold queues: lines for bread, lines for milk, for meat. It didn’t matter. In fact, an oft-told story is one about people seeing queues and simply joining them without knowing what was available. They figured something was available. And it might prove useful later, for trade if for nothing else.

Suffice it to say, I think that the queue has virtually disappeared, except in certain places, like cordoned-off areas. Still, they don’t function like queues elsewhere. For instance, waiting to purchase Metro tickets. Approach an open ticket window. Be prepared that someone else will also approach as you are in mid-sentence and ask the clerk a question, say, for directions. If nothing else, I’ve noticed a curious tendency for Russian queues to veer to the right. Before you know it, it has veered into the next queue. It’s like the people behind you are interested in what you are doing or where you are going. At least that’s the feeling I get. I know it’s all my problem for thinking that queues are supposed to be straight lines.

Funny, number 2, speaking Russian: I’ve thought about entitling the Russian portion of my journey as Russia on 100 Words or Less. It’s not that I think everyone should speak English (although it was certainly relaxing in Finland where almost everyone does). In fact, I’ve always enjoyed learning language on the road.

Americans are stereotyped as not only wanting the world to speak English, but actually thinking that anyone can actually understand English, if only the speaker speaks slowly and raises his voice.

Russians have another approach to linguistic differences. If you ask if they speak English, and they cannot, they look insulted that you’ve asked. If you try to speak Russian, they can get very excited and speak even faster. At least it sounds like that to me. Certainly, you don’t get cut any slack. There are exceptions, two come to mind quickly: ladies at the shops in churches, even when they don’t know I’m a priest, and younger clerks, especially at upscale, American retail shops.

Then there were those two really nice young waiters at Sir Lancelot’s, with the ruffled collars. I see one whispering to the other, “I think we need an English menu.”

“Hey, what gives me away?” I ask Ka’ren. He only smirks.

As my parishioner Alla says, quoting a Russian proverb: Fr. John is like dog: he understands everything and can say nothing.

(Well, not quite but close.)

Funny, number 3, the Babas: I mentioned before the role which Russian grandmothers (babas) play in keeping order in the churches. Ever on watch for a miscreant at prayer, they can appear out of nowhere to correct with walking stick or shaking finger.

Fortunately in my case, there was no weapon. I had transgressed local custom in the route I took to venerate the icons. Enter, the baba: She looked at me and came forward. I thought she was going to ask a blessing. Then, I realized I didn’t have my cassock on, so wait a minute. What was up?

She explained that I should not have crossed in front of the Royal Doors to reach the other side of the church after venerating the icon of the Saviour. I should have cut a half circle around the center analoi and then approached the other icons. I beg her forgiveness. I make sure to bow lower than she stands. She is very short. Finally, she smiles. It never hurts to be chastened.

Scripture talks about the Lord chastening those whom he loves. It never says he will use babas to do it, but then again, it doesn’t matter. If we can’t accept chastening from babas whom we can see, then how will we accept it from God whom we cannot? Honor thy father and thy mother, and this includes babas, even if they aren’t yours.

Funny, number 4, Russian road rage: So many cars being driven by so many people here over the last twenty years has impacted the Russian highway infrastructure in many ways. One is the traffic jam. (Is it dzham?) Anyway, they can be as dense as any in America’s big cities. The best thing to do is attempt to avoid them.

Folks who can afford it hire drivers. While this leaves the driving to someone else, it does not take the fun out of riding on Russian roads, especially in the country. I’ve noticed a curious habit that drivers will attempt to pass on the slightest margin. Then it is a question of whether that four-cylinder engine really has the juice to get around all those trucks (or cars) and make it safely back in lane before the oncoming traffic reaches where you are. (Obviously, in my case, they have so far.)

Drivers will take all pains to miss potholes. This makes for a driving pattern that looks much like Olympic figure and speed skating all rolled into one event, except that your competition is skating toward you. It is sort of like Roller Derby on tires with the Kansas City Bombers coming from the other direction.

If your driver misses the turn or exit: no problem. If no traffic is coming behind you, he will simply back up. I could have sworn we were approaching about 250 meters (800 feet) in reverse that day in Vladimir.

Funny, number 5, walking down the street: People tend to walk on the same side of the sidewalk that they drive on the road in most cultures, especially if most people can drive. The same is true for stairwells.

Americans tend to walk on the right, just like they drive. Just try getting off the plane in London in the morning after a transatlantic flight. You head for the first people-moving sidewalk you see. But, wait: Not this one; that one! Which one? The one on left. Brits and Americans can meet head-on very quickly.

In Russia walking is sort of like Russian driving, too. Especially, when attempting to pass or to turn across pedestrian traffic to enter a shop. Usually in the US, if two people see that they are about to collide in another two seconds, both will pause a minute to reroute. In Russia, it doesn’t work that way. Only the American pauses. Just because you pause doesn’t mean anything for oncoming foot traffic. They just keep coming. If you don’t move out of their way, you should.

Hey, it doesn’t mean anything for the folks behind you either. They’ll just pass you on the right. (They do that on the roads, too.) So, be careful when walking in Russia.

And, I still hold doors for ladies. That’s another pause, and a bit unusual against the backdrop of Soviet-style egalitarianism. No one holds doors for anyone.

Funny, number 6, the toilet: This is toilet humor, but not the type you think. (Hey, why should you think it and I write about it, anyway?) The funniest moments have come from reading the instructions inside the many WC’s across the land. Some of the best:

• On the train: “Do not stand on the toilet.” (OK. That’s fine by me. From the picture, it looked a prohibition against washing feet in the toilet. Not a problem, either!)
• On the train, again: “The request! In the toilet, not to throw! Anything!”
• In the hotel: “Anzeige” — followed by the rest of the warning in English. Anzeige? But be on anzeige (notice), then, “Don’t suppose a constant channel at water use.”
• And at the monastery: It is easier to clean the toilet than to clean your soul. (Graphic, but pithy!)

Funny, number 7: Say, What?!? :

• Sign at the 24-Hour Convenience Store:  “Open 8:00-20:00″
• Notice at the hotel: “For information about tours in our area, ask a staff member at Reception about what’s available.” Reception’s response:  “I don’t have any idea.”
• Ashtrays provided in “non-smoking” rooms.
• Cigarettes provided in mini-bars in “non-smoking” rooms.
• Smoking in “non-smoking” rooms. (Uh, you think?)

The Feast of St. Sergius of Radonezh
The Feast of St. Elisabeth the Grand Duchess and her cell attendant Varvara

I attended liturgy this morning where Fr. Nikolai greeted me with his typical gusto and gifted me with a Slavonic liturgy book, plus instructions to learn how to read it. To say he is robust is an understatement.

Most of the worshipers this morning were older women or younger women with small children, but few men: only about 30, tops. (Maybe everyone else is at the dacha.) Truth be told, the church can’t hold 70. Maybe 20 feet (6 m) square, its size initially lost in the magnitude of its tower that soars over the nave. Many Russian churches can be quite small, even in larger cities. Andrei, the adult altar server, asks me how many attend liturgy in State College each week: “Your church must be big, then.”

I demure and say, “Well, at Pascha, we had 200.”

“Your church is big!”

OK. It’s matter of perspective. At Holy Trinity, we think we are outgrowing our space, and maybe we are. But I don’t think of us as a big church…yet.

An interior shot of the lower chapel of Ss. Igor, Demetrius, Dimitri, and Alexander Nevsky featuring the church's baptistry.

After liturgy I was invited to see the lower church, dedicated to St. Demetrius of Thessalonica. It was another unexpected joy. Full center there was an adult baptistry, with a ciborium or canopy over the top. Each one I’ve seen gives me more ideas. (Our 150 gallon Rubbermaid horse trough is portable, rugged and serviceable, but it sure lacks on esthetics!)

It rained again last night, and I’m listening to CNN to get a take on upcoming weather. (Funny, except for weather and sports, I think I’m watching re-runs on the news.) I leave on Tuesday for a day and a half in Seoul before meeting up with Matushka in Seattle on Thursday. There was Russian missionary work in Korea before the Bolshevik Revolution, and indigenous church life has continued there. I hope to visit St. Nicholas Church while I’m there.

Noting the Feast Days celebrated today, it makes me wistful to think about the celebrations going on today in Russia for St. Sergius at Holy Trinity Monastery, and for St. Elisabeth in Alapayevsk, as well as for the Royal Family yesterday in Ganina Yama.

Typically there are pilgrimages to locations associated with the various saints of the Church on their feast days. Preparations were underway near Ekaterinburg while we were there two weeks ago. In Texan terms, it’s like a “homecoming” or “camp meeting.” Services tend to be held outside because of the large crowds. New friendships can be made and old ones renewed. For some, it becomes an annual event in their lives, not to be missed.

Most times, pilgrimages are hosted by monasteries associated with the particular saint or Church feast. Chaucer’s “Canterbury Tales” depicts the tales told between the pilgrims on the way to the shrine of Thomas à Becket, in verse form. Of course, Chaucer is ribald and fiction.

This afternoon I visited the local historical museum down the street from the hotel. It really was interesting, from the wildlife exhibits showing these weird looking little deer with vampire-like canine teeth, to the explorers and the early cultures here. Also, don’t forget that Yul Brynner is a hometown boy. There was an exhibit about him and his family. (And Alyssa, I found his name spelled both ways, both in English and in Russian: sometimes with one “n” and sometimes with two. Go figure.)

I also was able to read a sailor’s hat today and not get into trouble. His said: Black Sea Navy. So, I suspect I was right about the other fellow’s reading Pacific yesterday. Actually, the name is on the ribbon they wear. If they change fleets, I guess they just change ribbons.

Well, enough for today.

Blessings to all.

(Postcard image: An outdoor shrine in Vladivostok dedicated to St. Matrona of Moscow.)

The Ninety-second Anniversary of the Murders of the Royal Family

The train arrived on time this morning to a rainy Vladivostok. Apart from the light shower in Irkutsk a few days back, this is the first heavy rain I’ve encountered since Pushkin, over a month ago. That was on the Gulf of Finland. The Hotel Versailles was not far from the station and the taxi delivered me in short order.

Apart from church and orientation around the city, I don’t have any plans. By the time I leave for Seoul on Tuesday, I will have been on the road for two months and the body feels it. Fortunately, I had “down time” booked on the schedule.

The hotel sits upon a hill overlooking both the Bay of Amur to one side and the port to the other. The bayside is a popular public gathering place, with an amusement park, and countless soft drink and souvenir stands. Here the typical Russian matryoski nesting dolls are hard to find. If fact, there weren’t too many in Yakutsk either. As should be expected, the souvenir theme here is the sea: sea shells, sea shell jewelry, animals made of sea shells, and little model frigates with “Vladivostok” on them, thankfully not made of sea shells.

One block away sits the new (2007) Church of Ss. Igor of Chernigov, Demetrius of Thessalonica, Dimitri Donskoy, and Alexander Nevsky. It occupies its own park with a war memorial. I suspect the war memorial’s location and the dedication of the church are not accidental. Vigil begins there at 16:00 (4 p.m.), so it will be an easy walk down hill for church this evening.

I ventured over another street and found a major thoroughfare, leading to the city center. By this time, I’m hungry. The snacks I’ve had until now have played out. I make my way to “Subway.” I’d been determined to eat at one so I could report back to son Chris, who is the assistant manager at a Subway in State College.

OK. The logo was unmistakable: in English. The menu looked predictable: in Russian. There is a poster telling patrons how to place their orders in six easy steps. I don’t remember those in the States. I ordered something I could pronounce easily, the Italian:

I want the small one, on black bread (wheat). I repeated the black bread request a second time.

“So, you want white bread?”

“Fine.”

“What do you want on it?”

“I want the Italian.” (I thought I had already specified that.)

“No Italian. You have these.” She points to the small selection of meats: three or four, I think plus chicken and tuna. No cheeses.

“Klub, OK?”

“OK.” I don’t protest.

Chris would be pulling his hair out over protocol, here. My sandwich was placed out of line and I was concerned that the guy behind me would be given it. Fortunately, the selection was so limited there wasn’t much of a chance there was a difference.

However, I do get all the vegetables I ask for, and can even pronounce the Russian word for mustard: gorchitsa.

“To drink: coffee or tea?”

“Pepsi-Cola, please.”

“No Pepsi. Only coffee or tea.”

Why does this start sounding like an old SNL routine. At least, they had Pepsi.

“OK. Kofe americano c molokam (American coffee with milk).”

The sandwich is fine. Not what I ordered or wanted, but fine.

I continue my stroll and waltz by a porcelain and crystal shop. I’m a sucker for both. Sorry, honey, the luggage is so full. I buy another flash drive for my computer at a place nearby, and walk on.

Vladivostok is the home port of the Russian Pacific Fleet.

The fleet is in. I don’t know which or how often. Maybe it always is. Russia doesn’t have many places for one –hence, Vladivostok’s importance. But there are plenty of young sailors with slightly older officers on shore leave. The officers tend to walk in front and the seamen follow, virtually two-by-two, almost like middle school kids on a field trip. Well, they are better behaved and in uniform.

The Russian navy uniform has broad blue collars hanging toward the back of long-sleeved white shirts. The collars, trimmed with white stripes and stars, start in the front in a V about the collarbone and widen into a backwards-bib on the shoulders.

Headgear? Large, round white hats –not sailor caps or berets –with long black and orange ribbons tied around the head band and dropping at the rear for a foot, at least; then, black pants and shoes. Something is written in gold lettering on the front of the black headband. I can’t read it fast enough and feel awkward asking a sailor on the street: Young man, may I read your hat? I think I make out the word “Pacific” in Russian. So maybe it says “Pacific Fleet” for all I know.

The officers seemed literally to have dressed down by comparison: light yellow shirt-jacks, same black pants with similar hats, but colored like the shirts, and no ribbons. They look more comfortable, to say the least.

I think that it is about time for Vigil. The government abolished two time zones over the past year or so. And I think that I’m in one of the abolished ones, or so it would seem to me. My computer tells me one thing; my phone, another. So, I think that I know the hour, but I’d better check.

*      *      *

I’ve returned from Vigil and a walk towards the port. At portside, I see a chapel dedicated to St. Andrew, flying the St. Andrew’s Cross flag. It is the same as the Scottish flag: a white field and a blue “X” cross. He is the patron saint of the Russian navy, as well as of Scotland. The “X” cross reminds us that St. Andrew was crucified head downwards, as was his brother St. Peter. In St. Andrew’s case, it was on a large “X”-shaped cross.

St. Andrew is particularly revered in Russia, Ukraine, and Romania because of his missionary labor in regions around the Black Sea. There are stories and legends about how far St. Andrew took the Gospel before his martyrdom. Some seem far-fetched at first glance. However, considering the extensive use of rivers in Rus’, which allowed trade and commerce to flourish both with Constantinople and the Baltic, some of these are not beyond possibility. After all, St. Andrew was a fisherman and, thereby, a sailor of sorts, before he ever became a fisher of men.

Nearby is another huge war memorial, to commemorate the lives of Russian sailors lost in various wars and battles. In front is a huge submarine. (Chas. D: I took a picture. I hope that you can tell me the type it was.)

It is really funny, an American strolling freely around Vladivostok taking pictures of the Russian navy and war memorials. Twenty years ago, this whole city was off limits to foreigners and most Russians. Its strategic importance was too great. Had I gotten in town — impossible, but had I done so — I wouldn’t be writing this down tonight.

On the way back, I stop at the local market. It became a ritual for the family last month, and it certainly is one that Ka’ren and I continued. At the very minimum, we always buy water. Why? Well, it’s so we don’t have to worry about buying it tomorrow.

Except for St. Petersburg, Russia’s water is supposed to be pure, at least when it leaves the water plant. But you can always take the hint your hotel gives: if water is supplied in the room — Evian, Bon-Aqua, etc. — that’s the cue. There’s a carafe in my hotel labeled “Portable Water.” (I think they meant “potable.”) But I take the hint.

As I said, I stopped for water and for a few things for supper. I don’t want to eat much and have a just a few things in the room left over from Yakutsk. So, I ask the attendant for 50 grams (1.8 oz.) of salami.

“What?”

Salami! OK, “Sosiski.”

She points: “This?”

“No. That one.”

Again: “This?”

“No. That one.”

“This?”

“Yes, that one.”

“We don’t slice that one.”

“Which ones?”

“This one. This one. And this one.”

“OK, that one.”

“How many grams?”

“50.”

“50!?!”

“Da! 50!”

Guess what? I finally get my 50 grams of summer sausage, about 8 circles. I thank her. She then weighs a banana for me. And off I go for the water, and packs of instant coffee. I’m happy. My 50 grams of sausage cost me under 15 rubles ($1.65 USD)! With a banana, that’s a pretty cheap supper. (Mother would have been proud and reassured that my college education was not in vain.)

Now back in my room, I’m getting ready to hit the hay. I won’t have the train to “rock me like baby” as Alla told me it would.

(Postcard image: The Triumphal Arch in Vladivostok, in memory of the visit by Nicholas Alexandrovich, Tsarevich of Russia, in 1891. Demolished after the Communist revolution, it has been recently rebuilt.)

Technology is great for the technologically inclined. I resisted push button phones until they all came that way. My technological limitations started yesterday.

On our boat ride across the Lena, the screen on my iPhone “all of a sudden” started displaying in extra-jumbo-large mode. I didn’t do anything. Used to tell the folks that too. But, obviously I had done something. That I didn’t know is what made it harder to undo.

Trouble was, in extra-jumbo-large mode it was hard to manipulate the screen, i.e., next to impossible. I recharged the batteries after we got back to the hotel and fiddled with the screen problem for a while, but gave up. I figured, well, it’s charged. I’ll go to bed and work on it in the morning.

Morning came at 5:00 as Ka’ren and I made ready for the airports and our separate flights. I thought: I’ll work with this on the plane, or in the airport in Khabarovsk. OK, so far so good. But once in Khabarovsk I discovered that I was down to 28% and still had an extra-jumbo-large screen that I couldn’t do anything with. Of course, had I left it plugged in all night, it would have been higher. But I didn’t, and did I say that I couldn’t shut it off?

The real problem besides the technological one was that my train reservation information for this evening was stored in my email files. I needed to access them somehow in order to know what carriage and compartment I was in. The stewardess on the train would have my other information.

OK. In the Khabarovsk airport, there is no Wi-Fi or Internet cafe. Irkutsk had two! As I mess with my iPhone some more, the power is rapidly draining and I am gaining no substantial ground. I decide to visit the Evrocet Center, sort of like an AT&T store.

“Do you speak English?” I asked in Russian.

No.

“French?”

No.

OK, Houston we have a problem. I am able to explain my basic problem and finish my plea with: “I’m an old man and don’t know how to do this.”

The young salesclerk starts to move the screen with a finger’s touch like I had. No go. Power’s going lower. I ask if we can charge the phone and she says, “Yes.” She keeps working to no avail.

I stand there and keep standing there. In fact, I must have stood there for two solid hours as the phone recharged and she waited on other customers. Finally, I tell her, “If it doesn’t work, I’ll buy a Russian phone with All-Russia service.”

“It’s going to work,” she smiles.

I keep standing there. Nothing else to do; nowhere else to go. And my phone is plugged into the wall behind the counter anyway.

Finally, she tells me, “It’s working” Or, something. She is smiling, so I start smiling, too.

“What did you do?” I asked.

“I tapped the screen two times.”

“Oh. You tapped the screen two times! Well, how much do I owe you?”

“Nothing.”

I flatter her, hopefully, by repeating my “I’m an old man who doesn’t understand technology” speech, adding “but you are a young woman who does.” She smiles a bit more. I thank her profusely and head out the door. “I tapped the screen two times.” Gee, in the old days, with technology I understood, I would have kicked it twice and that would have worked too. But that really was a while back.

I don’t know what time it is for sure. Khabarovsk is an hour ahead of Yakutsk. I think it’s 15:18 (3:18 p.m.), four hours since I arrived. I’ll cool my heels here a while longer before I go to the train station. I think I leave in six hours so I buy another beer before I go. It is the cheapest (50 rubles/$1.65 USD) and seemingly the coldest I’ve had since Estonia: Sibirskaya Korona (Siberian Crown). I’ve had it before, but only 50 rubles for 0.5 L (17 oz.)? Coca-cola is 40 rubles!

I think I need to buy the young lady some flowers before I leave the airport. Have to remember to buy an odd number, though.

The Uspensky Cathedral near the city center of Khabarovsk.

Before arriving at the train station, the cab driver from the Khabarovsk airport suggests an hour tour around town. I’m game. Not only do I have nothing else to do, Khabarovsk is already appearing to be the greenest, cleanest, nicest city I’ve visited yet.

Khabarovsk lies on the banks of the Amur River. Much of the Amur serves as the border between China and Russia, though not here. However, mountains in China can be seen across the river in the distance. Sergei, my driver, tells me that it’s about a one-hour trip.

I’m able to get photos of two cathedrals. I breach protocol at the first one by attempting to turn on my now working iPhone to record the choir’s singing. Vespers is in process. Quickly, I’m called to order by a gentleman standing near the door. Oops! On my way out, I offer my apologies. He smiles and accepts.

Beautiful fountains adorn downtown Khabarovsk.

Of all the cities I’ve visited in this vast land, Khabarovsk appears outwardly the most prosperous. New construction is everywhere, and it’s attractive. Near downtown, there are three fountains, each one forming a lake a little lower than the previous, a gradually sloping cascade over several blocks. In the center lake, people swim and rent paddle boats for recreation. In the middle of another is a restaurant reached by a bridge. All is well kept, as is the rest of the city. In fact, I saw a street-sweeper on the drive in to town: no litter. No graffiti. After choking on the dust of Yakutsk for two days, this is the Emerald City.

Khabarovsk appears set on a series of gently rolling hills overlooking the river. The second cathedral is on a promontory, by a war memorial to the deceased from the Great Patriotic War (WWII) and forward. Of all the more recent conflicts, this region suffered the greatest number of losses in Chechnya, the nation’s latest.

The Amur River, one up in rank in terms of size than the Lena (ninth largest in the world), it forms the border between the Russian Far East and Northeastern China.

There is a Western feel here. And that seems crazy, considering how close the city is to China. There are far more European faces here than Yakutsk. (After Ka’ren and I left, that number decreased appreciably!) Khabarovsk is a young city for Russia, only 152 years old. (Yakutsk is 377.) Their histories are different and they are literally worlds apart.

I say there is a Western feel here, except for the autos. Virtually all of them are right-hand drive. As we progressed further eastward, we noticed more and more “cars with no drivers in them” as Ka’ren said. By Irkutsk it was well over half; in Yakutsk perhaps nine out of ten. They may be right-hand drive cars, yet they are being driven on the right as well.

(Remember, with a right-hand drive car, traffic usually drives on the left, as in Britain, or in Japan where these cars are manufactured. So, this takes some getting used to, if that’s possible. Pulling out into traffic seems a particular challenge, as well as seeing around the big truck in front to pass. I’ll leave that to the cabbies.)

Of course, Khabarovsk is far closer to Japan than to Europe. And it is relatively easy for cars to be purchased in Japan and brought to Russia via ferry at Vladivostok. Import duties are a killer, but other than that, Japanese quality is a winner.

There was discussion about making right-hand drive vehicles illegal, but too many people in this part of the world drive them. The government backed down.

At the train station, I am delighted to find a chapel off of the waiting room. It is dedicated to St. Nicholas. He is far more a patron saint of travelers to the Orthodox than St. Christopher, though we don’t discount him either. I am especially overjoyed to find an icon of St. Innocent of Moscow gracing the opposite side of the iconostasis. It’s another one of those “unexpected joys” that I’ve come to expect and appreciate so much.

I speak to the lady who is taking care of the lavka, the church shop. As best I can, I tell her what I am up to and ask her prayers. She asks for prayers for Leonid. So, please add him to your prayer lists, too.

The train departs at 21:00 (9 p.m.) local time (14:00 Moscow). I’m tired. But I’ve seen a little of this wonderful looking city — I hope that it really is wonderful — and I’m glad that I did.

It’s hard to believe that I’ll wake up tomorrow at the Pacific, this trek across Mother Russia now rapidly drawing to a close. It doesn’t mean that the pilgrimage or the sabbatical is nearing its end, however. This is only transition to the Alaskan phase.

As a side note: St. Herman’s journey to the Pacific was further north. He traveled from Yakutsk over the mountains eastward, by horseback, to the Sea of Okhotsk. As I flew out of Yakutsk this morning, I couldn’t help but appreciate once more how daunting a task that was. Even now, only one road links Yakutsk with the “outside world”, the Road of Bones to Magadan. And it stops at the eastern bank of the River Lena. There is no bridge.

The Road of Bones was built by the Soviets with slave labor, this being one of the gulags. Its name is derived from the many who perished building it. But the road is far from a good one. As I understand it, it’s 600 agonizing miles. As St. Herman did not go to Magadan, I didn’t think it would serve my purpose.

Magadan, Khabarovsk, Vladivostok have all come into being since that summer in 1794 when ten men from western Russia set out to missionize the new land of Alaska. Social institutions and political systems have come and gone. Yet I get a feeling in all this Russian vastness that some things and especially the things of nature haven’t really changed that much.

As Ka’ren and I got ready to leave our hotel for dinner this evening, I looked across the lobby and saw a familiar face. She was waving and smiling at me: Natalya Parmele. Natalya lives in State College. Her husband Steve is a catechumen at our parish. She is a native of Yakutsk.

Before leaving State College, Steve and Natalya had shared information about Yakutia with me and the fact that she would be visiting family in Yakutsk when I planned to visit. I sent Steve our hotel information and he relayed to Natalya. She had been staying at her brother’s village, upriver on the Lena, helping his family with their potato crop.

Natalya came to town — only 220 km (140 miles), or six hours by road and boat — to find me and visit. What a special treat! We invited her to dinner with us where she encouraged us to eat something Yakutian. It made sense to me. I don’t like going to foreign countries to eat approximations of what I can eat at home.

However, when it comes to eating Yakut style food, we were a bit ahead of her. I had already had “Yxa” here — fish soup, with Yakut seasoning. This means cilantro (coriander) instead of dill. Felt like south Texas again. And Ka’ren had done me one better: colt. That’s right, they eat horses here, foal with cilantro and onions.

I tried to explain why eating a horse went against a Texan’s nature: They are like family. They have names. We depend on them. I’d have to be very hungry.

It was to no avail. He chowed down on some poor little pony that probably never had a name to begin with. (Yakut horses, by the way, are short stocky little things. They can tolerate the cold and are 80% meat and fat.)

Tonight, Ka’ren orders a local fish; Natalya, a raw fish salad, and we all toast our visit with Kumis: fermented mare’s milk (7% alcohol). Actually, it doesn’t taste “horsey” at all. (Goat milk tastes like goats, but horse milk just tastes like buttermilk without the clabber.) It’s just a milky liquid with a fizz on top. I’ll admit it’s an acquired taste, which Ka’ren — of all people — doesn’t acquire. Hating to see food go to waste, I drink his down as my nightcap.

We wish Natalya all our best. It’s 23:00 (11 p.m.) already and Ka’ren and I have planes to catch soon.

(Postcard image: Copyright © 2005, Alfred Stoppels)

We have moved so far east and north, coupled with a time zone change, the sun is setting around midnight again. In fact, when we went to bed about 00:30 (12:30 a.m.), we couldn’t tell if we’d left a light on or not. Not. It was the twilight’s last gleaming. But we were so tired, it didn’t keep us up. And don’t ask when sunrise was. We slept right through it.

However, for an area with so much daylight at this time of year, it was hard to find anything going on in the evening. Around 21:00 (9 p.m.) families were out for strolls and letting the kids play in the parks and fountains. In Yakutsk, as Perm, there were groups of young people, consuming alcohol publically wherever we went. For so many, they appeared to be bored: merely sitting and drinking.

We went on to Holy Transfiguration Cathedral last evening to check the service schedule. Three ladies were cleaning; we entered and prayed. As we walked away from the church, a little guy, maybe three or four, came skipping by, big smile on his face. I didn’t catch it, but Ka’ren did.

“Did you hear what he said? He turned around and said, ‘Santa Claus?’”

Ho! Ho! Ho! Well, I guess the word is out.

A plaque commemorating the site where St. John the Theologian Church once stood.

As we had walked around town, we spied a wall plaque on a government building. It noted that the Church of St. John the Theologian stood there until it was demolished in 1981. It is located a few blocks from Holy Transfiguration.

Besides excess alcohol consumption, a greater social problem in Russia is abortion. Since legalization in 1955, it has been the chief means of “birth control”. In European Russia, the birthrate has fallen below replacement level. This is not the case among Moslems in Russia. But it’s hard to see families with more than one child anywhere. I did notice young families with two children at churches along the way. In several churches, pro-life information was prominent.

However in Irkutsk, we saw a commercial on television for a pro-life film, Give Me Life, as we sat at breakfast. It included commentary from a doctor, a lawyer, a priest, and a popular female rock star. Come to find out, there is a news article about Give Me Life in the local paper in Yakutsk and when it will be shown.

Of course, it takes more than commentary; but beyond seeing the commercial itself, I was most impressed by the fact that a popular singer would be advocating for life as she did. Combating atheistic ideology is a task that is never ending, especially in a society in which it was dogma for seventy-plus years. Its ravages are omnipresent.

The Diocesan Center and Seminary in Yakutsk.

Today, we went to the Yakutsk Eparchy Center/Seminary. The bishop died suddenly on 9 May and the loss is observable in the demeanor of the staff. A diocese whose bishop dies is said to be “widowed”. The term is most apt in this case. We are met by Hieromonk Efrem, who is the secretary of the Eparchy. He offers us tea and shares a bit about work in Yakutsk with us.

There are now 53 churches in Yakutia. (The city of Yakutsk alone had eight before the revolution.) A chief difficulty for mission is the lack of clergy, since not every parish has a resident priest. Transportation and isolation are attributing problems. In the past, the bishop would take a boat on the River Lena, northward towards the Arctic, celebrating liturgy for those far distant from the regular ministration of the Church.

Father Efrem also talks brings up the problem with their youth and alcohol, noted above, as a missionary challenge.

Father Efrem (left) gives a Father John (right) a tour of the high school complex being built by the local diocese.

He offers to show us the late bishop’s office upstairs as well as the new educational “Complex”, which is being built about 1 km (0.6 miles) away. The bishop’s office is exactly as it was before his sudden death two months ago, a large office with conference table. As we leave, Fr. Efrem graciously gives each of us a copy of the Psalter and the New Testament in Caxa, the native language here. It is also being used liturgically in addition to Slavonic.

We are driven to the “Complex.” Reminiscent of a monastery in lay out, it will house a gymnasium — that is, a high school, scheduled to open this fall. All forty places for the first two classes have been enrolled.

The St. Innocent Complex currently being built in Yakutsk.

We walked through the living quarters under construction, saw classrooms and auditorium, and the sports gymnasium, too. The wings of the school converge at a chapel to be dedicated to St. Innocent of Moscow. He served as bishop in Yakutsk after leaving Alaska. In fact, the entire complex will be named for him.

Adjacent to the complex is the site of one of the oldest churches in Yakutsk, dedicated to the Mother of God. It contains three “churches” or altars: Nativity of the Theotokos, Entry of the Theotokos and Annunciation. It was built in 1752, and fortunately not destroyed. Some feasts are already being celebrated here before renovation is completed.

Many plans are underway for further social and educational ministry, including a kindergarten and hospice facilities. The death of the bishop means that everything is technically up in the air. But there is hope that there will be no radical departure from the current goals once a new bishop is appointed.

I asked Father Efrem whether this is a training center that will lead to seminary, or a general education program. Father explains that no expectation of going to seminary is involved. The overview is to train a generation of leaders with a Christian foundation, no matter what future discipline they pursue. “Then, no matter where they are, they are ours. It may be like the Jesuits, but I think it’s a good way to go.”

I agree. There is a definite commitment to transforming society at all levels evident here. Frankly, I wish our bishops in America had such vision. It may be after Patriarch Kyrill visits this fall to dedicate the new “Complex” before a new bishop is named here. And hopefully, the new bishop will prove to be an Elisha to the former bishop’s Elijah.

All too soon, our visit is over. We leave Father at the Eparchy Center and walk the short distance back to the hotel. We have two items left on our must do list: to see the gemological exhibit at the State Gemological Museum next to our hotel; and to take a boat ride on the Lena.

The gemological exposition is wonderful. Yakutia is rich in diamonds, silver, gold and semi-precious stones. The exhibits include historical artifacts of Yakut (Caxa) culture: bone and ivory carving, silver and steel work. The metal work was noted by early Russian explorers, that Yakuts were capable of producing finer silver work than that of Europe. No one knows when the metal age was entered here, but it advanced to a very high level. The suit of steel armor on display is reminiscent of samurai armor.

Modern jewelry, based on old designs and new, keeps me transfixed by each display. The gemstones are truly magnificent. The semi-precious ones are equally beautiful. In particular, inlaid tabletops formed of local mineral stone are on view. They are totally smooth, with no ridges or joints to be felt where one stone is next to another. But the patterns are not random, or even only geometric. Pastoral scenes of Caxa life are featured here.

In the Hermitage, there were similar tables that had been made for the sovereigns. Of course, we could not touch those. Here we allowed: smooth as glass.

The Lena River, the tenth longest river in the world and the greatest Russian river.

We finish the tour all too soon. It certainly beats looking at permafrost! We head for the River Port to catch a ferry to the other side of the Lena. It is a two hour round trip. Of course, it is a slow boat, but one cannot underestimate the magnificence of the Lena, or the dependence that people here have always had on it.

Our trip is merely a local one, to Mene Xanagas. That’s a Caxa word. I don’t know what it means. However, when we arrived on the other shore, the boat just coasted toward the bank head on, stopped and lowered a gangplank to the sand. There was no port, just a spot. Everyone on board, but us, got off; new riders going to Yakutsk got on. The return trip seemed shorter. It must have something to do with the route the captain has to take to go to Mene Xanagas, fighting the Lena current. Somehow, the return seems a bit more direct.

I had originally wanted to travel the length of the Lena the 1,000 miles or so that it is navigable from Ust’-Kut. But it is difficult to arrange the trip unless you live there or have a lot time on your hands. In summer, excursions do run both up and down river from Yakutsk. Our trip today was nothing like the journey taken by our missionaries, but for a realistic modern account let me recommend Jeffrey Tayler‘s River of No Reprieve. It is a wonderful account of his trip down the Lena, way past Yakutsk to Tiksi and the Arctic Ocean in 2004. I read it in preparation for my sabbatical and it allowed me a vicarious river trip, nevertheless.

We have completed another day here and still need to unwind a bit before our early morning flights tomorrow. The hotel is packing breakfast for us. I will be continuing on my way alone. Ka’ren will be returning to Moscow and work.

I asked him to write down the following phrase for me in my day-planner: “I have an email ticket” figuring that it might come in handy when boarding my last train for the overnight from Khabarovsk to Vladivostok tomorrow. So, Ka’ren handily writes: “I have an email ticket” in English!

OK, wise guy: write it in Russian! He does. You will have to wait until the weekend to see if I make the train and arrive in Vladivostok, or not.

We are really going to miss traveling together. It difficult to comprehend that we’ve been on this phase of my pilgrimage since June 29. It has been wonderful having his knowledge of country and language to rely upon.

Happy Bastille Day!

That doesn’t have anything to do with Yakutsk or this blog. But, anyway…

The Institute of Permafrost, a "must-see" attraction when visiting Yakutsk!

We arrived in Yakutsk around 9:40 as forecast. We are now Moscow Time + 6. Russia is an incredibly vast land and the flight from Irkutsk this morning simply demonstrated more of the obvious.

We flew over mountains, and more mountains, and even more mountains. What was surprising was the small amount of snow that could be seen from our plane. Eastward facing slopes and crevices near the ridges had small patches of snow left but only in spots. Some of the ridges poked higher that the tree line, but most mountaintops were treed.

The mountains intersected one another, forming such a massive watershed, with innumerable valleys and streams. Rivers snaked themselves gradually downhill from one set of valleys to another. The headwaters of the River Lena are outside of Irkutsk, near Baikal. The waterway below drains into her. At times, looked like long green Christmas ribbon candy from the air, massive “S”‘s carved into the earth, like switchbacks on mountain trails. At other times, they would stretch out in unpredictable scrawls on the terrain, as if drawn by a young child holding a crayon for the first time. Then, the “S”‘s would reappear, only to change into scrawls again.

As we neared Yakutsk, the mountains became hills and then the land got flatter and flatter. The work of man, straight lines for power and rights of way were visible. Fields and then villages came into view. The River Lena, the 10th longest in the world, finally appeared into my line of sight across the alluvial plain.

In St. Herman’s day, the Lena was the only means of outside access to Yakutsk. Along with modern air travel, it still basically is. Founded in 1632 as a Russian outpost for fur trading and strategic reasons, Yakutsk is a city of 250,000 today. Before the Revolution there were eight churches here with a considerably smaller population. Now, there are only two. Its Bishop Sofrony was martyred in 1922.

This is the land of permafrost, where traditional foundations do not serve buildings and houses rest on posts. There are few highways in this part of the world, little time annually to build them and even less to maintain them. In fact, outside of Yakutsk it is easier to drive on the roads — or the River Lena — in winter since they are frozen, and therefore harder than in the spring when the snow melts and the roads become bogs.

As I said, we arrived on time, after an interesting flight.

First, it took more than one person to read my passport and confirm my ticket. Names in the Latin alphabet go into Russian phonetically. When they come back out, they are still phonetic. So, my passport has John Reeves on it, but my ticket says Dzhon Rives. Another person has to come in and “verify” that I am one and the same person. (About 300 years ago, our family line seems to have opted for the Rives spelling, from Ryves, for a generation. I doubt these folks would have understood my point.)

Then, for some reason, Ka’ren and I were separated by our ticket assignments, though our reservations were made at the same time and by the same agent. We entered mid-plane and I could tell by the stewardesses’ expressions that my ticket meant something different. But I couldn’t tell what. So, I was directed to my left, towards the cockpit and Ka’ren to the right with 95% of the rest of the passengers.

There were few folks in my section. Most were wearing pilots’ uniforms. One was drinking a beer. (We departed at 6:10, remember.) I suspect that they were deadheading into Yakutsk. Anyway, I was given my own row. Other than that, nothing seemed different.

On take-off, I would have thought we were trying to take off from a runway filled with boulders. Everything was shaking. Three overhead luggage compartments flew open. Two sleeping passengers were reclined in their seats with no effort exerted to see that their chair backs were returned to a full and upright position. No one was particularly disturbed, except for me.

As we leveled off after takeoff, I looked back. Our stewardess was still seated in the back row, asleep. I guess some people can sleep through anything. In front of her was a row of luggage occupying seat space. A woman’s garment bag was suspended by a coat hanger from the overhead bin opposite. It stayed there the whole flight.

After landing, a rather formidable female, who was not in uniform, looked out the window and saw that a VIP transport had pulled up in addition to the bus to take passengers to the terminal. She looked at me and informed me that I was to take the VIP bus to the terminal. I took this as a hint to deplane and proceeded down the stairway. I saw Ka’ren outside the regular bus, waiting for me. So, I boarded with him.

All of a sudden, the formidable one found me and informed me once again, to board the VIP bus. She said this as she boarded the regular one. OK. “Come on, Ka’ren! You are going with me.”

We get on the VIP bus and wait for other “very important persons” to board. There aren’t any. By this time the first bus has already left for the terminal and a second is leaving. We VIPs are just sitting there. We arrive last. But it is important to note that our driver backed our bus into a parking space making us all of 25 feet closer to the door–our VIP door, that is. We enter the VIP entrance, which is really the VIP exit upon departure. I set off the metal detector entering since that is the only way to get into the VIP lounge. No one seemed concerned at all. It might be better leaving from the VIP lounge. But arriving was another matter.

Where’s our luggage? It’s over in a third building about 170 meters (500 feet) away. We walk toward that building noticing that our whole planeload of people has already walked over to it ahead of us. We follow over a wooden sidewalk, sort like the ones in the Old West. We enter the luggage building, wondering what the trek would be like in winter. We wait for a policeman to open the door to the delivery area. Our luggage has made it. We broker for a cab and make our way to town.

We remain mystified about the VIP bit. Ka’ren said that announcements were made in Irkutsk about “upgrading” to VIP class or service or whatever for a fee. By the way, he got fed the same breakfast I did, so I didn’t get a special meal. (But we both got breakfast on a domestic flight, unlike in the US these days.)

Yakutsk reminds me of the dusty outskirts of a Mexican border town. The road is a pockmarked, asphalt stretch with no shoulders. It is dry here and dusty. It is also hot: 32-33°C (~90°F). But it can climb higher here and might this weekend. In the winter, Yakutsk is one of the coldest inhabited places on the planet.

Holy Transfiguration Church on the edge of "Old Town" Yakutsk with the sun still shining at about 10 p.m. local time.

We head for Old Town for lunch. It is a recreation of what Yakutsk did or should have looked like once upon a time. It is literally around the corner from our hotel. On Old Town’s edge is Holy Transfiguration Church and the Diocesan Seminary.

After lunch, we go across town by taxi to visit the Institute of Permafrost. It was a 40-minute tour underground to look at permafrost, -8°C (18°F) at 12 meters (40 ft.) deep. Well, it was supposed to last 40 minutes. I doubt if it took more than 15-20 which included putting heavy winter coats on. What did I learn? Permafrost is cold and old, and the ice crystals that can form look pretty spectacular.

We are pretty bushed with all that has happened since our 1 a.m. departure from the hotel in Irkutsk today.

More tomorrow.

(Postcard image: A photograph taken during the Yakutsk Institute of Permafrost tour, which Fr. John experienced today. The temperature underground remains stable. It’s almost the same in winter and summer. Copyright © 2010 eyakutia.com)

We left Baikal yesterday (July 12) in early afternoon. We walked to the end of the highway, about 1 km (0.6 mi.) from our hotel. There are many souvenir stands in that area, selling all sorts of similar items that we’ve seen before: matryoshi stacking dolls, fridge magnets, and birch bark handcrafts. What stood out to me was jewelry fashioned from semi-precious stones, some found only in this area.

A beautiful small street chapel in the heart of Irkutsk.

We decided to hire a taxi for our ride to Irkutsk, since the hydrofoil we were considering taking didn’t run on Mondays. We had our driver wait for us we toured a museum of Baikal limnological life at the other edge of town. A couple of nerpas were in an aquarium, swimming back and forth for our amusement. Other large tanks held various type of Baikal fish life, including the omul, one of those many Baikal species found only here.

The museum had a seismology display, as well. Earthquakes are always being registered in this area, and one of the functions of the museum is to monitor then. Once every two-four years a good-sized quake hits the area. And every 20 or so, a “really good one” hits.

Then, it was on to Irkutsk where we use a good bit of our time here to catch up on email.

We found Internet services in what looked like a shed near a back alley. Inside, the un-airconditioned back room was packed with computers for 50 rubles/hour ($1.64/hr.). The manager kept tabs on who used what via a surveillance camera.

“Take your pick,” he said.

“We don’t need a login?”

“No. Just start.”

OK. The heat outside plus the computers inside made the place hardly bearable. But there were plenty of customers typing away, speaking Russian, French, English, and Mandarin. At 50 rubles/hour, this was a bargain.

Ka’ren then treated me to dinner at a special restaurant he had found which featured Russian cuisine. Its name was “Sir Lancelot” (see postcard image courtesy of virtualtourist.com) and the theme was quasi-early, early English, I think. The waiters had ruffles at the tops of their shirt collars, sort of like Anglican choristers. And the entrees had interesting names: Merlin’s Spell, Robin Hood’s Booty, Maid Marian’s Gift, Gaels’ Gift to Brittons, and many other interesting titles. We didn’t tell them that neither Robin Hood nor Merlin wore ruffles.

So, how all this related to Russian cuisine, I don’t really know. But everyone was friendly and it was a good way to end the day. We ordered zakuski (appetizers) only, and feasted on everything from smoked fish — including omul and grayling from Baikal; cold meats: roast beef, beef tongue, and chicken roullet with mushrooms, Georgian khachapuri, seafood julienne, and fried calamari. To say it was eclectic was an understatement, but so good.

Today, we headed out on foot to Epiphany Cathedral about 1 km from the hotel. On a day when clear skies were forecast, it was drizzling. We kept walking. We attempted to visit the Polish Catholic Church of the Assumption on our way, built here by Polish exiles. It is noted for its organ and hosts many concerts. Unfortunately, it was locked.

Epiphany Cathedral occupied the next block, opposite a third church: Church of Christ the Saviour, the latter now a museum. Epiphany Cathedral is another wonderful polychrome structure, with tent-style belfry connected to an over-sized narthex. The nave itself is undergoing iconographic restoration, but the entry under the bell tower plus the narthex were marvels, complementing the new iconography on the exterior walls of the complex.

Once again, the Last Judgment with scenes from the Apocalypse was chosen for the narthex. The expansiveness of the ceiling allowed for many of the icons to be amplified to larger sizes than usual, without making a worshipper feel intimidated. The martyrdom of Ss. Peter and Paul was shown at the back of an adjacent side chapel, which appeared actually to be used for liturgy until the iconography is finished in the main church.

By this time, the drizzle had turned into a noticeable, audible rain. We sit on a bench in the entry under the belfry for a while before deciding finally to call a taxi to pick us up and take us to our next site, the Znamenny Monastery, about one more kilometer away. (Both the cathedral and the monastery sit on the bank of the River Angara.)

While visiting the Znamenny Monastery in Yakutsk, Fr. John had an opportunity to venerate the relics of St. Innokenty (Innocent), a missionary to Siberia and the first bishop of Irkutsk.

The importance of the monastery cannot be underestimated for my quest. The relics of St. Innokenty Sibirsky lie within. St. Innokenty was involved in early evangelistic work here, having reposed in 1731. His life would inspire “our own” St. Innocent of Moscow, Apostle to America, the latter being born north of Irkutsk in 1795.

The relics lie in the catholicon of the monastery. Structurally, the monastery appears in good repair, although its iconography remains covered with the soot and grime of hundreds of years, obscuring much of it. St. Innokenty lies to the right of the iconostasis in front of the south cliros screen. I noticed a potential problem: his relics are cordoned off, along with the entire nave.

I say, potential problem: I was dressed in mufti today. Would the ever vigilant, omnipresent lavka keeper allow my request to venerate them? Ka’ren asked her for me.

“Yes, you may,” she gently smiled.

I purchased a small print icon of St. Innokenty to lay upon his reliquary as I prayed, then slipped past the cordon and approached his silver casket with a bit of trepidation and wonder. Here lay the individual whose missionary endeavors would inspire one from a generation yet unborn to venture forth mission to Russian America, roughly 100 years later. I thanked God as I stood there.

At the Znammeny Monastery, a memorial to Grigory Shelikhov, who issued issued the call for laborers in the mission field of Russian America.

After returning to thank the lavka-lady once again, Ka’ren and I walked around the church to its eastern side. There stands a large marble monument, topped by an obelisk, a memorial to Grigory Shelikhov by his widow. Among his many accomplishments noted around the four sides of the base are the arrival of missionaries in Alaska in 1794. Grigory Shelikhov had issued the call for laborers in the mission field of Russian America, one that St. Herman and his companions had heeded. To put things into perspective, he headed the Russian America Company, which was involved with trade and settlement in Alaska. This is all duly recorded on the memorial.

Additionally, we found the graves of Sergei Troubetskoy and his wife, exiled to Irktusk in 1825, who were part of the Decembrist Uprising of nobles against the power of the tsar. In the large plaza outside the monastery, a newly erected statue of Admiral Kolchak, commander of the White Russian forces stands. Irkutsk served as his headquarters for a time. His bronze likeness surmounts a granite block with the relief images of both a White Russian and a Red Russian soldier, weapons crossed, looking at one another. The installation of this statue has not been without its critics.

The grave of Sergei Petrovich Troubetzkoy (1790–1860), one of the organizers of the Decembrist movement.

By the time we finished at Znamensky, it had stopped raining. We have our taxi let us off back near the hotel and we walk around a pedestrian shopping area for a while. We rounded a corner to turn back towards our hotels. We were delighted to find ourselves in a fairyland of wooden houses, trimmed in gingerbread decorations, some painted, some plain. New-style double paned windows were the only adaptations to modernity we could spot easily. The young girl carrying a bucket of water from down the block, made us wonder.

After lunch, we found ourselves back at our den of Internet, typing away, before we headed back to the hotel for rest.

We leave for Yakutsk at 3:00 a.m. tomorrow. We have been able to book our hotel room for a day and a half.

The adventure will continue.

*       *       *

And it soon did.

We arrived at the airport soon after 1 a.m. for our 3 o’clock flight. Then as Gomer Pyle would have exclaimed: “Surprise! Surprise! Surprise!” Our flight time had been changed, to 6:10. And here we were at an eerily quiet airport, no hotel to go back to, and time on our hands.

Ka’ren is not amused. He keeps staring at the departure sign hoping that the next time he looks at the board our flight will magically have corrected itself to the right time. It doesn’t. Flight #494 will leave at 6:10 and that’s that.

What to do? I suggest that we grab a couple of benches and settle down for a little sleep if we can get it. The benches are metal but at least without arm rests which would have made stretching out impossible.

We aren’t alone. There are other folks here doing the same thing. At one in the morning I don’t think that they will appreciate conversation, so we don’t attempt to strike up a conversation. We place our luggage under our seats and sleep — yes, actually sleep — across the aisle from each other.

Before you know it, at 3:30 I guess, the P.A. goes off announcing a flight to Vladivostok, over and over again, what you can carry on and not. Finally, I hear the word “Yakutsk” and roll over and up. At 3:40 we check-in and head for the Kafe for coffee and Wi-Fi.

Funny, a bunch of the folks for Yakutsk seem to have gotten the message. They are coming directly from the street. Oh well, our names were on the list. We were processed quickly and here we sit. I’m still chuckling, but Ka’ren…oh well, as I said, the adventure continues.

Later…

Fr. John writes in Listvyanka overlooking the picturesque Lake Baikal.

As I write, I sit on the balcony of our room, overlooking the village of Listvyanka. Lake Baikal is a few hundred meters (yards) away. To say it is beautiful here, or picturesque does not do it duty.

Our train arrived in Irkutsk this morning on time, however it is calculated. Local time was about 6:30. We find a taxi driver who will drive us the 70 km (43 miles) to Listvyanka and off we go from the station.

Irkutsk appears to be thriving. We’ll pay it a closer look on Tuesday. It does look “clean,” which is how the driver describes it. The highway is lined with pines virtually all the way from town. Both dachas and the Mak-mansions of new Russian seem everywhere.

To our right, we see the River Angara, the only tributary flowing from Lake Baikal. In time, we see Baikal where it narrows and feeds the Angara. The Shaman’s Stone, sits in the middle where lake becomes river. Local Buryat lore explains the stone in mythological terms.

The village church in Listvyanka dedicated to St. Nicholas where we attended the Divine Liturgy today.

We arrive at our hotel at 7:45 where they explain that our room is not ready for us. This is no surprise. We pay our driver, stow our luggage at the hotel, and head off on foot to church. St. Nicholas Church is all of 0.5 km (one-third miles) from the hotel, just down the hill, cross two streets, and a small stream and we are there. (As far as I can tell, Listvyanka has three streets, plus the highway to town.) It is a well-kept brown and beige painted wooden church, capped with an octagonal dome and fronted with a smaller octagonal bell-tower. Both have blue metal roofs, while the church’s itself is green.

Almost no one seems awake. Roosters are crowing and evidence of recent horse traffic dots the gravel streets. We still have time to explore before liturgy begins, so off we go to see Baikal from the shore. On the way, we pass the entrance to the Retro Museum Park. We peak through the wooden fence. Ka’ren is intrigued and will want to return. I see things that remind me of my inheritance in Texas which I have been slowly getting to the town dump.

From the seawall — it sounds funny to call it a seawall, but what’s really a “lake wall” — we spot an onion domed church on the same knoll as our hotel. We go for a look and find that it’s a cemetery chapel, perched on the hillside overlooking Lake Baikal. A grave, freshly dug, lies empty. The grave of one of Listvyanka’s young men, only twenty-eight, is still covered with flower wreaths.

St. Nicholas’ bells have sounded and we head back toward church. By this time, Listvyanka’s canine population has woken up and at each turn, a new bark announces our arrival. Soon, it seems, all the dogs in the village know there are two new humans about.

Returning to church, it looks as vacant as before. True, the door is open and a car or two sits behind it. As we enter the grounds, we see two older men escorting an elderly nun across the walk, up the side steps, and into the church. Good, we won’t be the only ones there!

A shot of the village of Listvyanka, located about 70 kilometers (43 miles) from Irkutsk.

Of course, as we step over the threshold, we see a good portion of Listvyanka already at prayer. Liturgy is about to begin and the church is already half-full or more. The shape of the inside reminds me somewhat of Holy Resurrection Church in Berlin, NH. The majority of the nave sits under the drum of the dome. The nave itself is square. Floors are painted brown, and have been painted several times before. The iconostasis is white with gilded wood and realistic art for the most part. Two large cliros screens shield the small choir from view.

I can see at least two more nuns present. Could there be a small monastic house nearby? The congregation is older but reflects every age group in town, from toddlers up. Most worshippers stand separately to pray, men to the right and women to the left. Sixth Hour is concluding as we take our places.

Something tells me that this is the deacon’s first liturgy since ordination. If not his first, it is one of his first few liturgies. Any Orthodox deacon or priest can recall that first service after ordination. It’s a nervous time, and anything one knew or thought he knew about serving has suddenly been erased from his memory. To be sure, there is the sign that he is green: there is that seasoned priest standing nearby to whisper in his ear: Turn, bow, cross your self, here is your place, you need your prayer book, pick up your stole. It is all quite terrifying.

The senior priest was a man whose face had graced the portraits of a previous century (the 19th), his eyebrows busily jutting out into peaks at the outer folds of his eyelids, a full mane of hair flowing down into the back of his robe, his beard thin but long. The “seasoned priest” at the deacon’s side by contrast had a modish haircut, trimmed beard and tinted lenses in his eyeglasses, which remained dark though indoors.

The choir was composed of three women singing traditional melodies, many known to me, in their own version of three-part harmony. Sometimes it was descant, melody and alto; or was it tenor? What it lacked in resonance, it made up for with spunk. The congregation even whispered along from time to time, until the Creed and the Our Father. Then, it was everyone’s turn to let loose.

Finally, the deacon just sort of disappeared. He had started a litany without his prayer book: a cardinal no-no, even if one thinks he has it memorized. Like anyone else who thinks he does, he didn’t. So, the altar boy brings out his prayer book. Then, before finishing, the deacon goes back inside and the priest finishes that prayer for him. I don’t know what happened. It did seem that the deacon was having a bit of a problem with Slavonic, the language used for church services in Russia. Whatever, I felt sorry for the guy, and which of the clergy reading this can’t relate?

What was really wonderful today was to pray in a real, Russian village church. Forget the beauty of the great temples in the large cities for a while. One really felt the praying going on today, in spite of a new deacon’s trials, or a choir short on technique but long on spirit. I found out later that St. Nicholas managed to stay open during the Soviet regime. Although, we were told: “it wasn’t very popular to attend. Only the old went.”

Lake Baikal.

After church, breakfast and check-in, Ka’ren and I found time to relax before hiring a fellow to take us on the lake in his boat. It drops off sharply and before you know it, it was 200 meters (650 feet) to the bottom. In a lake whose depth reaches 1.4 km (4,600 feet), that’s not really that deep, but deep enough for me. (Chas. D. will be reading this back in State College and chuckling about my landlubber nature showing through. He pilots submarines. This was a small boat with a single propeller engine and an icon of St. Nicholas. Every wave that hit the bow, tossed us up, and then splat, flattened us down.)

We headed for the Angara, where suddenly the depth is down to a manageable 10 meters (33 feet). I could see the bottom, the water is so clear. From this point for about 1 km (0.62 miles) downstream, the Angara never freezes. Baikal will freeze to 1 meter (3.3 feet) thick in winter. Our navigator explained something about the flow of the water from the bottom of Baikal combining with the springs feeding the Angara at that point being the reason for its not freezing at this point.

The Hotel Baikal sits above the lake on the side of the hill. Khrushchev had invited Eisenhower to stay there and had the highway put in to accommodate him. Eisenhower never came, but locals still say that Eisenhower brought them the road anyway.

We circled Shaman’s Stone and then went further downstream towards an open-air museum of early Siberian architecture. In a bit, we see Boris Yeltsin‘s place, sitting empty but nevertheless heavily guarded, with restrictions against boat traffic coming too close.

A 17th-century era Russian Fort not unlike what St. Herman encountered along his missionary trek to Alaska.

We disembarked at the museum. For me this is now open-air architectural museum number four, at least. What is interesting here is the portion of an early 17th-century fort on display. Russians fortified their eastern frontier with wooden forts, just as we did the West. Whether St. Herman and company saw this fort it hard to say. But that he saw one or more like it, it a sure bet.

There are differences between Siberian log buildings and the ones in western Russia, too. Not the least is the fact that these sit on the ground, with plank-covered floors in the barnyards. There were also Buryat houses, wooden yurts actually, hexagonal in shape, some with sodden roofs. Their shape reminded me of Navajo hogans in the American southwest.

This evening, I finally made it to the banya. Ka’ren promised he wouldn’t hit me with birch twigs and I agreed. I found it very relaxing.

We will venture up the lake’s shore a bit tomorrow before heading back to Irkutsk. I still want to see nerpa — fresh water seals – and eat omul — a fish delicacy limited to Baikal. This has proved a wonderful spot for R&R that neither of us will probably see again. After all, we are half a world away from State College now.

By the way, today my son Nicholas turns 29. Happy Birthday, Nick! Many years!